A/N: the prompt for this drabble was midnight. it's not as overt as the previous prompts, but i was actually pretty pleased how this drabble came out. i'm looking forward to catching up on the rest of kataang week, and i hope you all enjoy! ~TA
Some nights, when the air is cold but the sky is clear, and the moon is shining down like a bright, incandescent pearl, Aang slips from his bed and his sleeping wife and watches the night sky.
He finds that the older he gets, the clearer the past seems to become, until it runs through his mind like a reel. He sits alone and counts the stars and thinks of how many nights he spent, with the wind in his face and fear forcing his heart to beat a violent tattoo against his chest, fingers curled in the fur of his flying bison as he and his friends fled for their lives.
He thinks of nights where he slept out in the fields with only meager protection from the enemies that were surrounding them, always one eye open for the prince with nothing to lose and everything to gain by his capture. He thinks of nights where they didn't have quite enough food, or water, or warmth, where his friends suffered in silence because what else could they do?
He thinks of nights where he didn't sleep at all, where the faces of Air Nomads he once loved and called his friends become fainter as the time between their lives and his running away grows longer.
On the nights where starlight keeps him awake, Aang slips from his bed and climbs up to the highest point on the island, scrambles up to the roof, where he sits, arms folded, head in his hand, and watches the sky. He never dresses for the elements, even on the coldest nights; something about it makes him feel alive.
Time moves forward, bringing Aang further and further away from the boy he used to be, towards the man he is now. He's no longer the lost child who had a destiny to fulfill: he's a husband, a father, a councilman, a peacemaker. The days of riding through the night, always afraid that this hour might be your last, are gone.
She doesn't join him often on these nights. They share a bond that is unique and strong – neither of them have ever had to say much when words weren't necessary. There are thoughts that are Aang's own, and Katara knows better than to intrude upon them. There are exceptions to the rule, though.
The night Appa gets sick. The night Toph leaves to travel the world.
The night Sokka dies.
On those nights, when Aang slides from her bed, she follows without a word, climbs her way with him to the tallest point of the island, and sits, head tilted up towards the moon shining down on them, her fingers tangled tightly with his. They never speak. They never have to.
They're growing old, past the days of being children, of running away and fighting with their backs against the wall. They're parents and lovers and protectors, and it seems that they've left the dawn of their youth and headed towards the midnight, where the night stretches on until, finally, the stars fade out and it finally comes to an end.
She's afraid of the night when it will be just her out here, lost in the thoughts that seem too close to overwhelming her. Tonight, however, she is safe, and warm, despite the chill in the air. Her children slumber in the home their parents have built together, and Aang is by her side, his hand over hers, and they watch the night together.